


Blossoming Roots

by gnosiophobic



Series: Footprints in the Snow [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reconciliation.</p>
<p>“I am not some delicate damsel,” she said casually, never taking her eyes off the blade’s enchanting finish.  Jaime paused with eyes blazing and blood singing.<br/>“I never said you were,” his voice grew low and dark as he inched toward her.  “Nor do I wish to treat you as one.”</p>
<p>This series is now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blossoming Roots

“And what should we do now?”  Her soft, whispered voice pulled him from the heavenly doze he’d found resting his head atop her meager breast, a position more suited for a deflowered young lady from a song, not an old, broken knight.

“Mmm?”  It was a sleepy, but unabashedly pleased sound.

“Food grows scarce and I haven’t seen any living thing for days.  Wights and Others grow more rampant, too.  And poor Sansa still hopes to find her natural-born brother on the Wall.  But here we lay, selfishly enjoying one another instead.”

“Not much can be done in the dead of night, wench,” his voice groggy and rough with sleep.

“No, but we should rest and do as much as we can on the morrow.”

“And yet you continue to worry yourself instead of finding sleep,” he chided, though his shortened arm pulled at her still bare waist under the piles of furs.  A slow, unsatisfied breath left her.

“Should we go to the Wall, reunite Sansa with Snow, take the Black and help fight?”

“And have me swear another vow of celibacy I’ll no doubt break within hours of saying the words?”  He scoffed.  “No, my days of meaningless oaths have passed.”  _And I have all I mean to protect here._ “Besides,” he said.  “What if the Brothers of the Night’s Watch are no more?  Gods, what if even the Wall no longer stands?  Not that we’d make it far enough to find out,” his tone still laced with sleep, though gradually finding that familiar mocking quality it fell to so easily.

“Tomorrow Clegane and I will search for food,” Jaime said, resolutely.  “But the Wall is too long a journey.  If we travel too far, we may lose more than our honor.”  _Just as I nearly did,_ the thought of being found so helpless still nagged him.  "Your honor, at least," he smiled, suggestively.

“No,” she said quickly.  “You will not leave again without me.”  He should have sneered at her pity.  And once he would have for a certainty, but tonight, as he laid with her entwined, he found her protectiveness oddly comforting.  The woman was nothing if not stubbornly dependable, and arguing with the feather bed he laid upon would likely yield a better outcome.

“Fine.  Clegane stays.  You and I go.”  He wanted to sound far more authoritative, but instead his lips grazed the line of her jaw.  “And it’s rather unfortunate that all this worrying about rest has only awoken me,” he grinned mischievously into the place where his nose gently bumped the back of her neck and brushed his lips across its oddly graceful column.  Seemingly conflicted, Brienne groaned, some combination of frustration mixed with curious enjoyment.

“We could die tomorrow, you know,” he bargained.  “A storm could strand us.  Wights and Others could ambush us.  Even Daenerys Targaryen could fly by on dragonback and cover us in flames.”

“Jaime..” she chastised, but before she could say more, he laid atop her, covering her mouth with his.  Her slight and stifled moans only confirmed that he’d won.

 

For a fortnight or so, each day ended similarly.  As Clegane emptied his ever dwindling flagons of wine and Podrick and Sansa grew weary, Jaime would seek her arm and race to the dingy feather bed.

Some nights were thrilling, but quick, hastened by only the promise of sleep, while others more like the first, unhurried and enthralling.  But all warmed him, despite the flakes of snow steadily piling outside.

She’d spilled out a breathless confession of love one night as she trembled under him.  After, her eyes had opened wide and she never spoke of it again.  But somehow, her embarrassment never troubled him.  For Brienne was never one for words, and her actions showed enough.

Truthfully, he would have taken her to the Sept after their first night joined, if the snow did not cover as far as he could see, if Clegane had not assured him no Septons likely remained.  But only after naming him a great romantic fool.

So, a new world it was, where tradition was skirted for practicality and, at least in his own mind, he held a wife in all but name and title, not that either mattered any longer.  _We’d be better off without all of it_ , Jaime often thought.

 

“Podrick accosted me today in a spar,” Jaime said casually, spent from another night’s activities.

“He’s getting much better,” Brienne agreed, beaming sleepily.

“He caught me off-guard while I spoke to Clegane.”  Though her eyes remained closed, she raised a brow at that.  “And he said if I hurt you, he’d have no choice but to show me a lesson,” Jaime only laughed.  “He’s quite fond of you.”  Brienne let an almost sly smile grace her lips.

“Then you’d best keep your wits about you, Ser,” she mocked, but Jaime scoffed.

“If the boy plans to keep looking at the Stark girl as he does, you should tell him the same.”  Her eyes fluttered open and closed again, clearly fighting sleep.  “The Hound seems oddly protective of her.”

“The Hound is dead..” she drowsily mumbled, lost between the bed where she lay and some world of dreams.

“And so is the _Maid_ of Tarth,” a haughty grin spread across his face as he let the indulgent feeling engulf him.  If she heard his jape, she ignored him elegantly, letting the rhythm of her breathing settle to a calm, measured rate.  And Jaime rested his head upon her strong shoulder once more.

 

A shiver descended upon him as he awoke and found himself alone.  The place where Brienne had laid just hours before grew cold, as though she was never there at all.  Furs slipped from his shoulder as he rose, exposing bare skin to frigid air.  _It grows colder each day_. Soon they’d all have to sleep together near the fire, disappointing as it was.

After slipping on his wool tunic and lacing his thickest breeches, he descended the stairs to find Podrick sitting near the fire with a gloomy look.

“What is it, boy?  You look as though your most loyal dog has died,”  Jaime’s voice bounced off the wooden walls and filled the room as he continued his descent.

“Horse, actually.. Ser.  We’ve little left to feed them..  And mine.. my horse must have starved,” the boy stammered, though no tears fell.  _He must learn of loss, too, if he’s to survive_ , _just as the rest of us have,_ he reminded himself, though the sad look on the boy’s face ate at him.

But Jaime knew this day would come.  The horses would go first, and everyone must sadly feast on them, Brienne had said one night.  Even still, their rations grew smaller each day, and a single horse would only prolong what was sure to come.   Soon nothing would be left, not even beasts hidden dead under piles of snow.  And he’d noticed it in his clothes, how they draped more loosely, and in his movements which grew weaker each day.  He’d seen it in Brienne, too, on a night she rode atop him and moonlight hinted at every new crevice, at bone that once hid under practiced muscle.  He hadn’t said it, but the sight alone proved his worries real.

“Where are the others, then?”  Jaime rested his hand upon the boy’s back.

“Sansa still sleeps,” he pointed to a large hump hidden under piles and piles of heavy furs.  “Ser.. my Lady.. Brienne and Ser, I mean, the Hound.. Clegane are at the stable..  They’re skinning my horse.  ..I know.. I know I should help, but..”  With a steady pat on the back, Jaime left the boy at the fire.

 

“Would it be utterly indecent to feed a horse his own kind?”  Jaime mockingly enquired as he strode up through the snow in his heaviest coat and warmest boots.

“I’d eat a man if it meant I lived,” Clegane remarked, no hint of a joke in his voice.  With his hands soaked in blood and spatters across his tunic, the towering man never looked more frightful.  Brienne stood nearby, also covered in red, with one dried swipe across her forehead that Jaime itched to wipe away while laughing as though nothing had changed.

“The other horses will soon follow if we don’t find them something,” Brienne warned, smearing another splash of blood on her pale cheek.  “Then we’ll have no way of leaving but by foot.”  She’d never say it, but Jaime could sense the words biting away at him, hinting again of her guilt.  But he ignored the feeling and japed instead.

“And would that truly be so awful, my lady?  Coming to my bed night after night.  It certainly doesn’t seem to bother you now.”  Jaime thought he heard Clegane chuckle gruffly over the smacking and splashing of blood as he delved deeper into the carcass.  But the sound was mostly lost in favor of watching a shade of dark pink ascend upon Brienne’s cheeks.  Dutifully, she kept her focus on the hide she peeled away from cords of muscle.

“She’s right, Kingslayer.”  The moniker still stabbed at him, though Clegane never seemed to notice.  “But there’s a farm not far from here.  East a little ways.  No doubt those who lived there have fled or died, but there may be oats for horses at least.”

“Oh, Sandor Clegane, ever our gallant savior!” Jaime placed a mocking hand over his heart, which the man ignored as he busied himself with slippery innards.  “Today seems as good a day as any to travel.  I’ll find the place.”

“And I will accompany you, Ser,” Brienne spoke without hesitation.  _I’ll likely never leave the woman’s sight again_ , Jaime thought, though not unkindly.

“Last time you left, Kingslayer, wights, ambitious men and snow fought to take your life.  I’ll go instead.”  _There it is.  The words Brienne can’t say._ He felt weak, and pitied, and the feeling ate at him.

“True.  However, this--,” Jaime pointed his stump to the bloody mess before him, “seems a job better suited for a man with both hands.”  He turned his gaze to Brienne, oddly striking covered in blood and innards.  “And lately it seems I can’t die.  Though not for lack of trying.” 

 

 

______________________________

 

_It’s almost as if the Gods beg my forgiveness,_ Jaime sardonically thought as he trekked ahead, grasping the obsidian dagger at his hip.  Sunlight reflected brightly off the icy ground, and if not for the still unmelted snow, few would think winter had truly come.

“Confusing, isn’t it?”  Brienne trailed only footsteps behind him, torch held steadily.

“What’s that, my lady?”

“This winter.  Some days threaten to destroy all of life.  Others are simply beautiful, as this one.”

“A wonderful day for a romantic stroll, then?” He looked to her with a wry smile over the empty pack strapped over his back.  Though Jaime knew too well days like these would end soon, leaving nothing but deadly white.

“I suppose so,” she agreed, unexpectedly amiable.  And Jaime found himself suddenly remorseful when he turned to find her smiling fully, blue eyes sparkling against the sunlight bouncing off snow.

“I’d wed you, you know,” his voice nearly trembled.  “If I could.  If it still meant something.”

He heard her footsteps halt behind him as he patiently waited for her silence to end.  But when she took longer that he’d hoped, he turned to see her standing still with eyes wide and gazing into the distance.

“Jaime..” she whispered, fright and worry heavy in her voice.  Slowly, his gaze followed hers to the horizon, exposing at least a dozen wights lumbering toward them, clothing torn and tattered, sticking to their pale skin.

Without a second thought, Jaime clumsily ripped off the cloak he’d draped over his shoulders and wrapped it tight around his sword held snugly under his shortened arm.

“Set my cloak afire, Brienne.”  She looked at him, skeptical, but only slightly scared.  “Do it quickly!”  And she did, creating a glorious blaze which reflected beautifully off the ice below them.

“Now,” he steadied his voice.  “When I count down from three, I want you to run away from me in the opposite direction.  You understand?”  She shook her head, stubbornly.

“I will not--”

“You will.  If we separate them, we have a better chance.”

“But you’re not.. you can’t fight--”

“I can fight well enough, wench!”  Though her bullheaded pity angered him, he focused only on the sea of dead men coming near.  “Look, they grow closer.  Will you do it or not?”  She paused, then huffed before she nodded her head.

“Ready yourself,” he warned, never taking his eyes from the crowd approaching.  “One.. Two..”  He paused, took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.  “Three!”

Brienne strode away from him, just as she promised, and he was glad to see it.  Elegantly, she pulled Oathkeeper from her hip one-handed, gripping her torch in the other, and something inside his chest swelled at the sight.

A groan echoed out, much closer than he anticipated, pulling his attention back to the menace awaiting his torch.  And his blood surged with anticipation.

But when he turned, he found only three frozen men trudging toward him.  Most had chased Brienne instead.

He wanted to yell for her, tell her he’d been wrong to separate them, but she had run too far to hear.  Heedlessly, he charged at the few who neared, not wishing to waste another second when she needed him more.

He kicked one back swiftly as he reached his flaming sword to another, easily setting it alight with shooting plumes of fire.  And his pulse began to drum in his ears.  When the third lunged for his neck, he quickly whipped his sword with a laugh, setting the frozen arms aflame, as the wight stumbled back in a spiraling, fiery mess.

He walked then to the last one he’d earlier kicked still writhing awkwardly in the snow.  Jaime lowered to his knees and shoved his sword deep into its belly, savoring the feel of steel piercing flesh.  Violently, the frozen man convulsed under the flame and it wasn’t until Jaime pulled his sword back that he realized he’d extinguished his shoddily-tied flaming cloak.

“Seven Hells!” he cursed as he desperately plunged his sword into the small flame that still remained, still burning through torn clothing and beaten flesh.  When the wrapped cloth came to life with fire once more, he smiled, relieved.

 

By the time he reached Brienne, she’d made short work of the hoard that swarmed her.  Piles of ashen bodies laid strewn like some grotesque sacrifice and her eyes blazed with each movement.  Only one wight still stood, and Jaime hastily kicked him from behind, then thrust his fiery sword into its back just as Brienne raised Oathkeeper to strike.

“I didn’t need your help,” she seethed through clenched teeth.

“You certainly didn’t,” Jaime agreed, surveying the nearly endless pile of bodies fallen around her as he pulled the charred cloak from his sword, setting it back at his hip.  “We should keep moving, and quickly.  Where there are wights, Others are not far behind,” he said, grasping her hand, but she yanked it away.

“Then go!” she sneered, and the force in her voice startled him.  _Perhaps women have a much different battle fever,_ he thought, somewhat amused. _Men only want to fuck._ And despite her aggression, he felt no different from other men.  Briefly, he dreamt of coaxing her surrender, pulling her to the ground, ripping off only her breeches, and taking her in the snow, but instead he fought the urge in favor of survival.

 

Clegane had assured them the farm was so close that the trip could easily be done by the evening.  Jaime had nodded, though doubtingly, knowing every trip done in piles of snow takes thrice the time of those on uncovered land.  Still, he found solace in the sight of a small house fitting Clegane’s description close enough.  The place barely stood, with wood splintered and cracked and a decaying stable hidden behind.

 

With a sudden kick, the battered wooden door swung open, sending dusty shards of timber into the air.  But nothing inside the farmhouse seemed to stir.  Brienne followed behind, her eyes bright and alert, her hand readied at Oathkeeper’s hilt.

“Is anyone there?” Jaime called out, though not loudly.  Silence settled once again.  Cautiously, he moved inside, appraising the small space before settling on a leather sack.

“Thank the Gods!  Salted beef!” he mocked, picking through the sack.  “As if I haven’t already grown tired of the stuff so early in this long winter.”

“Be thankful there’s food at all,” she warned, her tone just as severe as the expression writ on her broad face as she placed her torch in a sconce near the door.

Without another word, he stuffed as much as he could into his pack and continued rifling through wares on shelves and in cupboards.  Brienne said nothing as she furiously did the same.

The sound of clumsy, but nearby footsteps echoed against the rickety walls.

“Is someone there?” Jaime asked again, placing his hand ready on the hilt of his sword.  Nervously, he looked to Brienne, uncertain.  And she gazed warily back, slowly unsheathing her blade as the shuffling of feet grew closer.  The sound of sliding steel cut through the room, seemingly acting as a beacon which drew a large wight lurching toward her.

Instinctively, she thrust Oathkeeper through the frozen body until it emerged from the other side.  But the wight pushed to her, forcing them both clumsily to the wooden floor.  Brienne twisted and jerked beneath him, ripping pieces of cloth from his back, barely held by worn bits of thread.  The ripping of cloth, screams, and lifeless groans rang in Jaime’s ears, threatening to later haunt him.  Hurriedly, he reached for the torch and headed for the door.

“Come on,” he taunted.  “Surely you don’t want her.  She’s awfully stubborn, after all.  I believe you’ll find me much more amiable.”  Jaime shook the flame as he backed out of the door and into a yard barred only by a dilapidated fence.  Determined, Brienne continued to kick and wriggle until she slipped away, the wight distracted by Jaime’s torch at the door.  With a sickening slide, her sword pulled out of flesh and across bone and the sound made his fingers itch to grab his own, but his hand stayed steady and tight around the torch instead.

He found it rather surprising when frozen, threatening fingers lunged at him.  But Jaime treated the torch as a sword, slashing and thrusting, backing as far as he could from the farmhouse before letting flames take root and grow across its body.  Soon the thing was set fully ablaze, shivering and falling to the ground, and Jaime grew intoxicated by the excitement as he rushed back into the farmhouse.

“Are you alright?” he asked, placing the torch back into the metal sconce.  Brienne stood silent as he strode past her, glancing through the other rooms.  Curiously, he looked over his shoulder to find her calmly polishing Oathkeeper with the dangling edge of a tablecloth.

“I am not some delicate damsel,” she said casually, never taking her eyes off the blade’s enchanting finish.  Jaime paused with eyes blazing and blood singing.

“I never said you were,” his voice grew low and dark as he inched toward her.  “Nor do I wish to treat you as one.”  And with that, he pushed her back across the large dinner table she had leaned her hip upon.  Cups and plates crashed onto the floor below followed by the clothing he tore away.  His lips and tongue nearly assaulted her neck, her chest and her mouth as his hand grasped her waist, firm and tight.

Some part of him worried he was too forceful, too bold.  In the inn, they’d been quick at times, and never so impulsive.  But when her calloused fingers reached to untie the laces of his breeches, he plunged his mouth to her breast without delay.

It wasn’t slow or sweet, but it certainly wasn’t uncaring, either.  They moved as in a spar, pushing and scraping, each desperately vying for the advantage, with hands running across heated skin and lips unsteadily pushing together.  But they moved in tandem, as though the world threatened to swallow them both, leaving them with nothing.  Beads of sweat rippled through his curled, matted hair, and rained upon the wooden table with each impatient thrust.  It happened so quick, much quicker than he normally would have hoped.  And when pleasure violently took him, he closed his eyes, gasped for breath, and collapsed atop her, chest heaving with quick breaths as the excitement faded into contentment and relaxation.

For a moment, he recalled his earlier thought, _men only want to fuck._ And he was right for a certainty, but only now had he let himself indulge.  Cersei was always leagues away when he fought the battles of his youth, and he’d have balked at the thought of spoiling himself with another.  At least then.  Now, though, he understood truly why the camp followers and whores limped the day after a glorious victory.  He smiled mischievously into the skin of her breast, though she laid still and silent.

“Something’s troubling you,” he prodded.  But she only huffed in frustration.

“Only this winter,” she said quickly.  And he looked to her skeptically, certain it was more than just that.  She’d not been so short since she escorted him back to King’s Landing nearly a lifetime ago.  And each time she turned away coldly, something stabbed deeply at him and made him weak.

“I feel as though I’ve lost some part of myself,” she finally whispered, defeated.

“You did,” Jaime said, almost cheerfully, hiding the sad feeling crushing in his chest at her words.  “Your maidenhead.  Do you not recall that night?  Because I do, and rather fondly.”

“It’s more than that.”  Jaime paused, his haughty smile softened.

“Independence,” he said.  “I lost mine long ago.  If I could ever say I had any at all.”  He looked at her faltering eyes and knew then he was right.  “But this world is cruel, you can’t hope to face it alone.  No one can,” he said softly, repeatedly stroking his thumb across the obvious outline of her ribs.  “Perhaps Clegane.  I’m rather certain he’d fare just as well without the rest of us.”

Either sunlight or snow glinted off a piece of cloth, torn and laying thoughtlessly on the wooden floor, and the reflection caught his eye.  _Golden thread._ The twine was artfully arranged so that it appeared as a lion’s mane.  And the cloth so dirty and tattered, he’d not even recognized the familiar shade hidden underneath.  _With Lannister crimson._ His brow furrowed as he reached for the torn cloth, studying it closely.

“That wight wore my house sigil,” he said, mostly to himself.  Brienne fell silent, then took a sharp breath.

“You’ve not seen that before?”

“Wights in Lannister crimson?  I’d not be so complacent if I had,” his concern grew more clear.  “You’ve seen many?”  Brienne worried her lip before speaking again, her eyes almost nervously darting around the room as though she’d been called to reveal some awful truth.

“Yes..” she spoke softly, slowly.  “A great many.  I thought you knew..”  And her words hit him like a sharp slap as his heart began to race and pound in his chest.  _These are the men I selfishly abandoned.  This is the fate they’ve faced._

Guilt showered over him, covering him, and for a brief moment, he was unable to move, unable to breathe.

Quickly, he jerked from the table, away from her shoulder and reached hastily for his breeches and boots strewn carelessly across the room.  Brienne sat up briskly, quick to cover her meager breasts with large hands.  But this time, Jaime ignored her modesty.

"Where are you going?” her voice frustrated, but worried.

“I’ve abandoned my men, and they clearly need me.”

“And will you abandon Sansa and Podrick so easily?  That camp is days from here at least and we’ve no horses.  We may well have let the wights take us,” her inhibitions forgotten in favor of standing nude, but tall to punctuate her argument, just as she had in the baths of Harrenhal, an image that still made his skin prickle.

“Then I’m not asking you to come.”  The words stung even his own ears.  And Brienne looked at him as though she’d been forced to watch her father’s execution while a crowd laughed and cheered.  Still, he stayed resolute.

Quietly, she pulled her tunic over her head, and the wool slumped as it descended down her chest and hung carelessly from her shoulder.  But he thought of only of the men he’d left, family, close friends, sworn bannermen, dutiful squires and joyous camp followers.  He thought of Ser Addam Marbrand, of Peck and the girl, Pia, of even Tom of Sevenstreams picking at his harp.  All of them likely dead, frozen, lifelessly wandering about.

_So much has changed, and yet, nothing has.  I’m still a man capable of destroying a kingdom, still a man more willing to put himself before his duty._

“Jaime,” her wounded expression changed to one more of burden and care.  “You said it best yourself.  No one can face this world alone.”  _No one._ Bitter insecurities only clouded his head.

“Out with it, Brienne!”  For she’d danced around the hard truth for too long.  “Tell me I’m an old cripple with more broken vows than fingers.”  Forcefully, he laced his boots, one-handed and angry.  “Tell me I won’t last an hour alone.  Tell me how helpless you seem to think I am that I can’t leave your sight for a moment without your worry.”

“Do not presume to know what I think, _ser_ ,” she nearly hissed.   Her gaze never tore from his, waiting to be challenged, and ready to fight.  And he was sure his own did nothing to temper her.  But soon, her eyes grew glassy with defeat.  “I just can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.”  Jaime’s hand clumsily dropped his bootlace.

_She’s lost her father and her home.  I won’t be the one to take the man she loves_ , the voice of Hyle Hunt rang in his ear.  But Jaime shook his head.

“I cannot leave them any longer.”

“And what if your camp holds no survivors, only leagues of wights?” she asked, busying her hands with a bit of loose string from her tunic’s hem.  _If they are dead, I can only blame myself._ “Or, worse yet, what if they turn on you and take your head?  You know as well as I most men care not of the sigil on their banner.” _Many know not of the sigil at all_ , Jaime agreed begrudgingly.  “Most men care only for themselves.”  It sounded as though his own words came from her lips.  And she was right, of course.  Renly Baratheon’s troops likely differed from his in colors alone.

_If only Tywin Lannister could see what his ruthless ambition bought_ , Jaime thought bitterly.  _Traitorous men who will undoubtedly kill his eldest son for a chance at the Rock._   And the Lannister men were indeed Tywin’s own.  Many openly fought only for a small taste of his family’s gold, and sometimes less.  A promised lordship over the Westerlands could start a massacre, and Jaime knew enough blood had already been spilled.

His father had stayed ahead of him at every turn in the Riverlands, but even he, dead or alive, couldn’t subdue the effects of a Targaryen invasion or a hellish winter moving faster south. 

“If we are to risk our lives, there are other ways to fulfill your duty, to restore your honor--”

“Arya Stark is a lost cause,” he interrupted.

“She might be.  Though Clegane says he’s seen her, and Sansa’s sure if anyone could survive, she could.  The girl’s a wild one, she says.”

“Perhaps she can marry Clegane, then.  Their children might never die.”  Something about the thought struck him funny, though he didn’t laugh.  The man was nearly thrice her age and much larger, not that any of it had ever mattered to the high lord and noblemen matchmakers.

Brienne remained determined, standing as tall as the Warrior.

“If Arya Stark can survive as Sansa says, we may find her once winter this winter has ended.  But there are others we can serve.  And with wights so far south, and blizzards raging in even the Riverlands, the North surely bleeds,” she said.  “And not from Targaryen vengeance.  Both of us have taken much from Winterfell.”  He knew she spoke of Stoneheart, guilty as she surely felt for what she’d done.  But his mind drifted to young Bran tumbling from a window, the news of Eddard Stark’s execution thanks to his own son’s unpredictable cruelty, and to the Young Wolf, the ever honorable Catelyn Stark, and so many more slain at dinner with his father’s domineering hand pulling the strings.  And again, she was right.

“The trip will be hard, and we may die, but we owe the North our swords, and its people our protection.”  _We,_ Jaime thought. _She’s treated the North remarkably compared to my awful family, yet she’ll go to the end of the kingdoms again and again to restore my honor_ , Jaime looked to her blue eyes, shining with determination. _She is a truer knight than any I’ve known.  Without her, I am lost._

 

Once again, snow began to fall as they left the farmhouse.  Jaime dutifully carried the leather pack of salted beef he’d found along with jars of pickled beets, dried dates and blackberry preserves, and Brienne, a large sack of oats.  The sentimental wench had even found a few flagons of unmarked wine she intended for Clegane.

Only quick glances were exchanged when they stumbled upon the burnt bodies of a small family in the cellar, children and all.  And Jaime turned away from the charred wight in the yard, unwilling to risk recognizing his face.

Outside, their footsteps had not yet faded, still imprinted in the piles of snow, beckoning them back to the inn with renewed determination.  When the wind began to roar and groan in Jaime’s ear and bits of ice stung his cheek, he pulled Brienne near, grasping her waist with his shortened arm as she covered them both with her woolen cloak.  And they pressed on, huddled close, one heavy step at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's it! I hope you enjoyed all of it!
> 
> First, I'd like to apologize for how long this took me to write. Between a crazy schedule, a big exam, and writer's block, I definitely struggled. Also, I think I re-wrote various parts of this installment at least five times, so there's that.
> 
> This was always meant to be a wish-fulfillment, but I realized as I was writing that my wish for these two evolved over time. I went from simply wanting them to "get together" in a romantic sense to Jaime also finding a way to reconcile the conflict between love and duty, a theme that comes up repeatedly in the series, and one that has been the downfall of others. I'm not sure I was able to totally achieve that here (if it can ever be truly achieved), but hopefully I at least set the groundwork for it. Of course, part of what makes any form of artistic expression so great is how the audience can interpret everything in their own way. I guess what I'm saying is simply, feel free to comment, discuss, provide constructive criticism, or ask questions if you feel like it!
> 
> And, of course, I really want to thank you all for reading, commenting, and being overall supportive throughout all of this! There were definitely times I kept going because of the encouraging things all of you said, even though I was frustrated with different parts. Writing all of this has definitely been interesting and challenging (especially because I served as my own beta, for better or worse). I can't say I'll jump into writing another series or chapter fic any time soon, but I may dabble some in one-shots when inspiration hits.
> 
> Once again, thank you all so so so much!! Now I can finally go and catch up on all of your wonderful fics!


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